milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: One commission, two gifts and an unexpected visitor. Small warning for a bit of blood and gore.]

Weyland returns to the bar sometime later, when he has recovered enough to appear calm again, and he carries the gifts he has made up to the bar. It looks like it's going to be another Atlantean night.

He takes a seat at the bar, and waits. There's one person in particular he's waiting for and several others he'd be very happy to see, but really any distraction would be welcome.

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"Really?" She glances at him, poker-faced. "And here I thought you were the sort of fellow who could get along with anyone."

"Normally, yes," he says dryly. "But the people of my youth--it's a bit like sibling rivalry. We know each other too well, and pick at each other's faults."

"Clearly you need fresh blood."

"And that's where you come in, it seems," he says. "The fresh blood--shaking up the world order. It will end in tragedy of course, but everything does, if you follow the story long enough."

She gives him a small, wry smile.

"That's how it always goes."

"There will always be work for you to do, my dear one, as long as there are people--and as long as there is anything living, there will be work for me."

"And who knows how much longer that will be?"

She takes a sip of the wine, appreciatively.

"There aren't any true seers anymore either," he says. "Not who can see all the way to the end. There used to be. Now there's just pay-line psychics."

"And I doubt they're worth too much," she says, with a smile.

"They are entertaining enough, if you want to toy with them," he says. "The in person ones, not over the phone--in person, that still takes at least a showman's skill."

"I've done that before, it's true. Reached inside the mind, told them all about themselves..."

She shrugs. "But it gets old, you know. Most things do."

"I like to give them nothing," he says, "no leading clues, nothing at all to work with, and see what they tell me about myself. Or sometimes I will be much more open and see whether they believe. They rarely do."

She smiles.

"For that matter, I can hardly believe you, sometimes."

"Why's that?" he asks, eyebrow raised. "You at least believe that I exist, and that I am who I say I am, I hope. That my work is unparalleled."

"Certainly."

She pauses, adds: "It's just strange, having a peer, I suppose. And of course, the trip to New York blurred both of our identities, in some way."

"We've always been who we've always been," he says. "It's just that sometimes we hide it more than others. In some ways I like not having to hide it, and in some ways it's terrifying."

The swan boat, having reached the center of the lake, begins swimming in slow, lazy circles.

"Hard to say," she says, looking out on the quiet lake.

"It makes me tired," he says. "Makes me feel old. Being forgotten--I think I should stop hiding."

"And how do you propose to show yourself, then?"

"I could start in here," he says. "Though I doubt it would do any good--there are other, far more impressive gods here, who have won the loyalty of mortals. What could I have to offer? What could I have to threaten?"

"More than I do, at least," she says. "You still have your powers."

"Yes," he admits. "But they need someone who can appreciate craftsmanship, and most people nowadays... they like the mass-produced, because it is cheap."

"Well..." She shrugs.

"Some of the things you make can't be mass-produced. Like... the mask."

He chuckles quietly.

"None of the things I make can be mass-produced--the beauty of them is in the way they are made. You know, I would like to see someone try--I'd like to have some competition. I work best when I have competition, or at least a goal to reach..."

She tilts her head at him, dark eyes considering.

"Competition... can be dangerous. At least, I've seen it end badly. As with the Pierides.

"Goals can be good, though. To keep us going."